


Ashen Moon

by bombcollar



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:24:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10660614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: The Dark Sun is not cast aside and forgotten so easily. Not even when everything else is lost. She still has a heritage waiting to be claimed, and a sister she must reunite with.





	Ashen Moon

**Author's Note:**

> crossposting from another rp blog. I will probably continue this in time! Ringed City Spoilers.  
> i just love hyper-ambitious Gwyndolin who doesn't know when to quit, ever.  
> the Gwyndolin i write is a trans woman.

The dreg heap, the cosmic midden all things that had been spent of their usefulness ended up in. So this was what the universe thought of her. Tortured, devoured, and cast into the sewers to be forgotten by time. 

Had she not been preordained in the past? Born beneath the moon, a pale and fragile child unsuited to her father’s hopes, no warrior prince to unseat his errant firstborn. But Gwyn was nothing if not a pragmatic man. He had recognized in her a burning ambition, a hunger for power to match a thousand kings and queens, and he had given her a place in his carefully-laid plans. But it had not been enough. beneath his nose she had built herself a cult of worship, and had he not given himself to the Flame, in time she would have taken his throne.  

Ash streams from her hair and clothing, whipped away by the howling wind. Above her the eclipse bleeds itself out into the horizon. As long as the sun hung in the sky, no matter how blackened and wasted, she could still draw her power from its shadow.  

Gwyndolin digs in the powder for her crown, but it’s nowhere within reach, possibly fallen far from her and buried deep. Just as well. She no longer needed it. She tears a strip of fabric from her ragged gown (the same one she’d died in, but it would do for now) and wraps it around her head like a scarf. That done, she braces her hands against the soft ground, head bowed, breathing in and out, tasting its grit on her tongue. 

There would be no going back. Anor Londo was not hers any longer. The city she’d curated, Irithyll at its feet, all of her hard work over years and years, all for nothing. Her dear Knightess slain and thrown aside like she didn't matter, her daughter… Gods knew what had happened to Yorshka. She bites her lip, drawing blood from the cracked flesh. It oozes down her chin, drying quickly in the desiccated air. 

But this was not the first time she’d lost everything. And, perhaps, not everything was lost after all. She had only been to the city at the end of the world once, when her father had closed it for good, condemning the first of the humans to total isolation, so they could never become a threat to him. Such was his fear of the Dark. But Gwyndolin was not her father, and if there was anything left alive and whole in the Ringed City, she would find it. She would take it, and rule once more, claim what her father had so callously abandoned for her own. This was not death, it was not defeat, it was a new chapter in her life. the Dark Sun would not be cast aside.


End file.
